Page 32 of The Hurricane Wars

Alaric had been seven when the war between Kesath and Sunstead broke out. He’d witnessed his father’s gradual deterioration, often wondering if it was a glimpse into his own future. For all of Gaheris’s assurances that knowledge was worth the cost, he had yet to teach Alaric his more taxing secrets—the Master of the Shadowforged Legion was needed on the front lines.

“You have not yet found the Sardovian remnant.” It was a statement rather than a question. The voice was a hoarse rattle, burbling icily from a wizened throat. “You let the Lightweaver get away and now you cannot find her and the others. She could be on the other side of the world by now—and, with her, Ideth Vela. The realm is not secure as long as Vela draws breath and as long as there is a Lightweaver for people to rally around. Amatchto strike against the darkness.”

Alaric bowed his head. “I apologize, Father. We have searched extensively, but if you will clear us to sail southeast—”

“No. Not yet. We are not yet prepared to tangle with the Nenavar Dominion. They might be on high alert, as they have every right to be after whatyoudid.”

Alaric held his peace. Silence was a pitiful defense, but it was the best recourse available to him at the moment.

“It is not yet the time. I have plans for the southeast,” Gaheris continued. “Plans that I shudder to leave in your less-than-capable hands, but who knows—perhaps the added responsibility will do you good.”

Alaric stilled.

“Now the real work begins. I pray that you will not disappoint me,” his father intoned. “Are you ready,Emperor?”

Alaric nodded. He felt strangely hollow. “Yes.”

Part II

Chapter Thirteen

Four months later

The rope stretched taut as Talasyn scaled the Roof of Heaven’s tallest tower, the grappling hook’s steel barbs straining against the sides of the crenel a dozen meters above her head. It was late morning in the Nenavar Dominion and she squinted in the brilliant sunlight, the humid breeze fanning her sweat-dotted brow. Higher and higher she went, heart pumping and adrenaline rising as the capital city of Eskaya grew smaller and smaller, until the rooftops were nothing more than a carpet of multicolored jewels on a field of green. Clenching her teeth, she pushed up on her knees and straightened her spine so that she was practicallywalkingalong the side of the building’s alabaster facade, her body slanted against horizon and blue sky.

Over the months of making the climb a daily ritual, Talasyn had grown to treasure these moments when it was just her and the tower and gravity. It was a form of moving meditation that kept her reflexes sharp, kept the vertical ramshackle slums of Hornbill’s Head alive in her heart. It was good to remember where she’d come from. It ensured that the upgrade in her living situation didn’t turn her head.

She hauled herself up over the battlement and onto a balcony, her feet on flat, solid flooring once more. The royal palace was perched atop steep limestone cliffs that overlooked the sweeping city of gold that she had once seen in a vision. From this tower, she had an excellent view of lush gardens, gleaming waterways, and busy streets dotted with landing grids where constant streams of airships—coracles and freighters and pleasure yachts and consular barges alike—came to dock. The skyline was dominated by curvilinear buildings fashioned from stone and gold and metalglass, although none stood as tall as the Roof of Heaven itself, and tucked among them were pockets of residential areas, where houses atop wooden stilts sported brightly colored facades and ornate stucco pillars, capped by upturned eaves and multi-inclined roofs that were home to bronze weathervanes depicting roosters and pigs and dragons and goats, swiveling with each breath of wind.

Surrounding the urban sprawl—sprouting up immediately right along its borders, in fact—was a rainforest that went on for miles upon miles in every direction, interrupted only by patches of the odd small town here and there. The horizon was ringed with the blue-gray silhouettes of distant mountains.

Aside from the thousands of skerries, atolls, cays, sea stacks, and smaller inhabited clusters jutting out from their bed of turquoise waves, there were seven main islands in the Nenavar Dominion. One for each moon of Lir, as chroniclers enjoyed pointing out. Eskaya—and Port Samout, and the Belian range—were located on Sedek-We, largest of the seven and Nenavar’s hub of governance and commercial activity. Talasyn had spent most of her time here, under close watch, becoming more acquainted with her father and her grandmother when she wasn’t being taught Nenavar’s language, history, culture, and social graces by a never-ending slew of tutors. She had been formally presented only two months ago, but the Zahiya-lachisremained tireless in ensuring that her heir was up to snuff. It was a monumental task, getting the aristocracy and the masses to accept an outsider to someday rule over them. Talasyn needed to look, sound, and act as Nenavarene as possible.Always.

“Alunsina Ivralis.” She said the name out loud, testing the shape of the name on her tongue. The passage of time had done nothing to take away from its unwieldiness. She frowned to herself. “Bit of a mouthful.”

There was a melodious laugh from somewhere behind her. “You’ll get used to it, Your Grace.”

Talasyn turned around. Jie, her lady-in-waiting, was leaning a slim shoulder clad in shell beads and silk against the doorway leading out to the balcony, arms folded and ankles crossed in a jaunty pose.

This was another aspect of Talasyn’s strange new life that was taking some getting used to—the fact that shehada lady-in-waiting. Jie was from a noble house and would one day inherit a title of her own. Her family had sent her to court so that she could gain political experience and make promising alliances. She was the one who made Talasyn look presentable and accompanied her during meals and the stretches of idle hours between lessons.

“You and the guards don’t have to watch meallthe time, you know,” Talasyn told Jie in Nenavarene, the words coming easily to her thanks to a combination of intensive study and some innate adeptness that she could only ascribe to her magic. Since being here and in the proximity of a Light Sever, the aether within her had responded like a seedling to sunshine. “The Roof of Heaven is a fortress. I hardly think that random kidnappers or assassins would be able to infiltrate so easily.”

“Most dangers come from inside the palace walls, Lachis’ka,” Jie replied. “But, as it is, Her Starlit Majesty has sent for you.”

Talasyn struggled not to groan. She had quickly learnedthat even the tiniest sign of disrespect for Urduja made most people uncomfortable, if not alienated them completely. “Lead the way, then.”

“Actually...” Jie giggled, tucking a windblown strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear, coffee-colored eyes flickering over Talasyn’s sweat-stained tunic and ratty breeches. “Let’s get you freshened up first, Your Grace. It’s a tea.”

The Dragon Queen’s salon was an airy complex in the eastern wing, decorated with frescoes and geometric carpets dyed bright shades of purple, orange, and red. Like most other rooms in the royal palace, it boasted white marble walls and accents of ivory and gold, shining in the sunlight that filtered in through stained-glass windows.

The gauze-woven hibiscus blossoms adorning the champagne skirt of Talasyn’s chiffon dress rustled as she crossed her legs—or, well, as shetriedto cross her legs, anyway. If she shifted her thigh up any further, she’d rip a seam. There was no doubt in her mind that Khaede would be cackling her head off if she could see Talasyn right now.

Not likeyouwould look any better,Talasyn imagined snapping at her absent friend.

Khaede was still missing. Talasyn had fallen into the habit of having pretend conversations with her as though she weren’t. It was childish, perhaps, but better than torturing herself with all the worst-case scenarios.

She placed one pointy-shoed foot back on the floor as Urduja observed her from across a rosewood table laden with delicate pastries and porcelain cups. The Zahiya-lachis had yet to apply the elaborate cosmetics that she donned for public appearances, but her bare face was every bit as intimidating with its granite-carved features and its penetrating stare.

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